


Victory in Nonlinear Progression

by Jedi Buttercup (jedibuttercup)



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Episode: s05e22 Not Fade Away, Fix-It, Gen, Time Loop, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 08:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16472231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedibuttercup/pseuds/Jedi%20Buttercup
Summary: The first clue that all might not be as final, nor as futile, as it seemed occurred just as the horde of demons began to rush the small group standing in the alley behind the Hyperion.





	Victory in Nonlinear Progression

**Author's Note:**

  * For [klutzy_girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/klutzy_girl/gifts).



> I saw your prompt about Wes/Illyria, and then the mention that you liked time loops, and this plot suddenly demanded to be written. :) Hope you enjoy! Written as a treat in Trick or Treat 2018.

The first clue that all might not be as final, nor as futile, as it seemed occurred just as the horde of demons began to rush the small group standing in the alley behind the Hyperion. Water fell from the sky, slicking both their human shells and the ground underfoot, and for one fractured moment as energy burst beneath her skin Illyria wondered if she had lost her footing and struck her skull: one last indignity inflicted upon her by her diminished existence.

But then – she gasped, opening her eyes again to perceive Wesley's bloodied form.

*

"Hello there," her ailing guide said, smiling up at her as her hand stroked his cheek. Her _pale_ hand; her _unmoistened_ hand. The demons were gone, and Illyria was once again inside the hall of Vail, wearing Fred Burkle's form.

"Wesley," she replied, choking on the words in her astonishment. It wasn't possible. The last time this happened – it wasn't _possible_. "You're here."

He smiled faintly at the sound of the shell's voice, release and pleasure mingled inextricably in his expression. "Yes. And ... so are you."

She had lied to him, appearing to him in this form. He had asked for the lie; but ... he had also died, smiling up at her in just that way. She had lived this moment once already. Why had she returned to it? Either she had succumbed to the mortal experience to such an extent that _she_ was now hallucinating as she died ... or Illyria had once more travelled through time.

Hope sprouted inexorably in her breast: a thorny, uncomfortable mass of writhing emotion, as foreign to her nature as every other the man before her had taught her to experience. And yet – strangely welcome, for the mere fact that he yet existed to be the cause of it.

"No," she said, shaking her head in denial as she released the false mask of the shell's original host. "You're _here_. Again. But how is this possible? You destroyed my power once already."

His brow wrinkled as the blue faded back into her hair; he was still dying, but she could see the focus seeping back into his gaze. It was not yet time to go quietly into the night – and he had ever been the closest to perceiving her nature. "Time travel? But the generator...."

"Yes. You used it to reduce me to the confines of this shell!"

"Reduce?" Wesley's expression shifted at the slurred word, into something more ironic but no less fond than the look with which he had favored the image of his beloved. Confounding; yet all too simple, if what he felt now was close to what she had felt to reappear in this place. Hope: had it ensnared him, too? "I know I once thought ... otherwise ... but never imply ... you are lesser. Perhaps I should've ... found ... another way. But I can't ... regret. If it's reverting ... the generator ... destroyed."

The words had taken a great deal of effort to utter; sweat beaded on his pale, chilled brow as he strained to finish the thought. She cupped his cheek again, wishing and yet not wishing for him to continue; dreading what would come afterward.

"When it ... reverts again ... the lab...." he said; then he stilled, gaze going distant.

Then, as had happened once before, she heard the sound of Vail rising to his feet behind her.

"What an interesting conversation," the demonic wizard said in taunting tones. "Pity he won't be around to interrogate further; but then, this conversation was never for mortals, anyway."

Illyria's hands tightened into fists as she lowered Wesley's form to the floor; then she stood, turning to face his killer. She had killed him once already. But even if her power was returning – that could not be borne.

Her fist was inches from his skull as the world tore around her again, pulsing in waves from her abdomen – and then she was back in the alley, vaulting over a chain-link fence.

*

"No," Illyria cried, hissing the words through clenched teeth. If the power was truly hers, then why had it denied her vengeance? Why return her to the place of their eventual triumph, too late to bring him there with her? "This is wrong. It cannot be here. It cannot be now!"

"What?" Angel wrinkled his brow at her, taken aback. "This is ... where we agreed to meet."

The one called Charles understood rather better, closer to mortality than the others, both by nature and by the wound in his side. "Wes is gone, isn't he?"

She curled her lip at the offal-taste of grief, turning away as she processed Wesley's newly final words. The lab: he could only have meant Fred's former place of employment. The Mutari generator: the tool Wesley had built there, to contain her self-destructive power. _An infinite extra-dimensional space, a negatively charged pocket universe_. She had experienced the rush of memories that had returned to the shell when another mystic device was destroyed; was the generator then the same? But if it had been destroyed, then....

Illyria bowed as pain clenched through her gut again, sharp echo and reminder of the stakes at hand. It _had_ been destroyed. Wesley was right. But wherever it had happened, _this_ was not the time or place to do anything about it.

"It's too late," she said, shaking her head and backing away from the others. "It has already happened. But it hasn't, it _can't_ happen yet."

" _What_ hasn't happened?" the white-haired one asked, frowning at her.

Time trickled between her fingers, notable as ever only in the moment of its breaking, and she turned her back and ran. The others cried out behind her, but their words were as mere noise against the greater backdrop of the oncoming army; she would allow them no effect on her actions. They would understand, or they would not; either way, it would not matter to the outcome. They'd _had_ their futile defiance. Now it was _her_ turn to act.

The ruins of the Wolfram and Hart building were still settling as she arrived; somewhere under the mass of fallen brick and shattered glass, a throb of familiar, stuttering energy reached out for its former container. Something had wrecked the building: something reminiscent of the blood that had stained Angel's scent in the alley, of the fists that had pummeled her into unconsciousness at the start of the long day that had led her to this ending. This beginning. She felt the energy begin to surge again, and gave herself over to it, throwing her head back in a cry.

*

Once again, she exchanged a rain-wet street for somewhere drier: for a hand brushing against a cheek. But it was not his, this time. It was hers.

The apartment where she had watched over Drogyn; where Hamilton had stolen him from her. Where the events yet to come had been etched into stone.

"There is no perfect day for me, Illyria," Wesley was saying, voice solemn with the gravity of truth. Choosing her, despite his barbed words, as he had ever since the moment he'd shattered the Orlon window. Thorns of hope again, that he would neither express nor allow himself to feel: ridiculously convoluted, as every other hedge of emotion mortals used to define the world around them.

But – she had experienced a world without him, however brief, and _she would not accept it_. Let her guide dwell in his sorrow. She could not stretch back far enough to change it, even if she would willingly undo her own existence. But she did not have to accept _her_ sorrow in return.

Illyria reached up to still his hand where it pressed the bandage against her throat, cutting him off before he could list all the things that he would not prefer to her presence. "But there still may be a tomorrow," she interrupted urgently, trapping his fingers within hers. "The Mutari generator. You kept it. What would happen if it was destroyed?"

Wesley blinked at the sudden change in topic, then frowned in displeasure. "Illyria, that power almost killed you before, and most of the city with you. It would be useful, yes; but also counterproductive. The attempt would not be worth the risk."

"I did not say I would be the one to destroy it," she replied, sharply. Did he think her so arrogant still? "But if it were to happen. If I _were_ to live this moment a second time."

Wesley paled, perceiving her meaning once more, and withdrew his hand from her grasp. "You would still explode. And this time there would be no way to stop you. Illyria, you cannot...."

She curled her lip. "You would tell me to halt its destruction. And live with yours in its place. But I have seen where that ends; it is no future worth experiencing. You said you did not intend to die tonight!"

"But I haven't," he replied, shaking his head. His shoulders bowed, as though a great weight had lowered upon them, but he took a deep breath and continued. "And ... if you believe what you say to be true, then you _must_. You may not be what I _want_ , but you are closer to her than anything else will ever come. What use is any of this if you kill us both before ... if you kill us both?"

He spoke not of the innocents, nor Angel's cause, but of Illyria; her anger guttered, then ebbed, leaving determination behind – for however long she might remain in this moment.

"Then wait, when the moment comes and you confront the wizard," she replied intently, rising to her feet. "Wait as long as you can. And when you can wait no longer, strike as though the world will come to an end if you do not."

He set his jaw at her plea; then after a long moment, nodded. "If you'll promise me you don't intend to die, either. We _all_ died, the last time this happened."

"And you saved us all, because you followed what _you_ thought best, not the half-breed," she reminded him. His capability for loyalty was admirable, but she preferred it when aimed in her direction; the vampire did not know how to properly value what he had been given. Then she turned to go, drawing briefly on that returning trickle of energy – if she wanted to reach her destination before another fracture occurred, the quicker she could get there, the better.

She arrived at the offices, then headed for the lab ... and found what she was seeking, in a cabinet beneath a weight-bearing beam. She removed it, cradling it in her arms, and dashed out of the building the same way she had come. Her energy ran out the moment she crossed the doors, restoring her once more to wholly mortal form, and she let out a long breath. The solution this time had been much quicker in coming.

It had also come before the critical moment. She set her jaw, tucked the generator away where no one but she would easily find it, then headed for the planned rendezvous with Izzerial and his brethren. 

Time had resumed its course – and there was no time left to spare.

*

The car full of demons fell to her fists as easily as before, and Illyria rushed once more toward the hall of Vail. The first time, Wesley had taken his fatal wound only moments before her entry. If he had listened to her words – if she managed to get there sooner--

She burst through the doors to perceive him still flailing in Vail's magical grip, and flung herself forward, dispatching the singed-looking wizard with one solid, satisfying punch.

"You came," Wesley said, staring at her; then amazement shifted to realization, and he swallowed, thorny emotions rising once again in his gaze. "You're _here_. Illyria."

"I told you I did not intend to die." He lived; he had changed fate once again. Impossible, confounding mortal; was it any wonder she claimed him?

"Yes," he replied, giddily. "Yes, you did. Care to test that conviction one more time?"

At the alley, he meant: the rain, and the wrath of Archduke Sebassis' legions. He would not abandon his friends to their fate. But this time, she would be there beside him.

She lifted her chin, confident in their victory. "I wish to do more violence."

"Ordinarily, I might caution you about wishes ... but in this case, I think it will be a simple one to grant," Wesley replied, wryly.

Then he turned toward the door, and they exited, side by side.


End file.
